


moon of charon

by Archaeopteryx



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Autistic Character, Friends to Lovers, Hospitals (briefly), M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Nonbinary Character, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Hatred, Therapy, Trauma Recovery, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Werewolves, Werewolves Turn Into Actual Wolves, blue lions are a cluster of mildly to very disastrous 20-somethings, documentaries as self-soothing, via werewolf therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:41:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28926702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archaeopteryx/pseuds/Archaeopteryx
Summary: Werewolves! If you aren't one, you probably know one. These days lycanthropy isn't a big deal: you take a couple days off work, a friend takes you to the dog park. At worst, you wake up and your mouth tastes like dead squirrel.Unless you're Dimitri.If you're Dimitri, you spend two days a month locked in your basement, until one month you wake up with your face glued to the floor in dried blood and no memory of how it got that way. Your friends call a counselor, andshetakes one look at the blank concrete floor and says, "Well, there's your problem, let's get you some squeaky toys and a pumpkin full of meat and see if you don't feel better."Unfortunately, it's not quite that simple.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Blue Lions Students, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & My Unit | Byleth, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 13
Kudos: 48
Collections: The Three Houses AU Bang





	1. hotcake house werewolf intervention

" _— itri? Dimitri!_ "

Oh, his head hurt.

Dimitri groaned, stirred. Something sticky glued his face to the basement floor. The space behind his eyes flared white with pain. The concrete, while grimy, lay cold and smooth against his cheek. He could rest here a while longer.

"Sylvain, help me roll him over — keep his spine straight — "

Four hands flipped him onto his back. The stickiness crackled as it peeled from his face _oh sacred Saints_ — Dimitri grit his teeth on a scream, panting through his nose.

"Mother of Seiros, Mitya, what the hell did you do? No, don't answer that, hold still. Ingrid, call the emergency room. I'll get him upstairs. Can you stand?"

Some kind of sound crawled out of Dimitri's throat. If it had a meaning, he certainly didn't know what it was.

"Okay. Okay. Shit, _shit_ , okay."

"S — s'lvain," Dimitri slurred. The sticky side of his face had swollen, the corner of his mouth glued shut. One eye blinked, and he focused blearily on a blaze of red hovering over him. Footsteps pounded up the stairs.

"Thank the Goddess. Can you stand? We gotta get you upstairs, man."

"Nngmph," Dimitri said. He struggled up onto his elbows, face scrunched at the pain — no, oh, moving his face was _very bad_. Sylvain braced a hand on his back and propped him up, then dragged Dimitri's arm over his shoulders.

"C'mon, big guy, _hup_ — "

Somehow, Dimitri wound up flat on the backseat of Ingrid's car, a towel spread out beneath his head and a bathrobe draped on top of him, knees scrunched up against the door and one arm dangling into the floorwell. The road hummed by beneath his head, monotone and soothing. Long drives with his father, wind from a rolled-down window whipping through his hair, engine singing him to sleep.

The eye that could drifted closed.

Automatic doors slid open, letting out a gust of climate-controlled air and reeking antiseptic. Dimitri recoiled, heels scrabbling against the smooth linoleum, but his bare feet gave him little purchase. Arms around his back, Sylvain and Ingrid marched him inside and planted him in a plastic chair too short for his legs. Ingrid's hand rested on his hunched shoulders, startling him. The rubber feet on the chair screeched across the floor.

"I know," Ingrid said. "I know, but — you're _really_ hurt. Just bear it for a little while."

The shitty chair dug into his hips and bruised his tailbone. Somewhere in the corner, a talk show blared from a TV. Dimitri drew his knees up to his chest.

"Blaiddyd," somebody called. Sylvain slipped an arm around his back.

"That's you. Here we go."

"Can we come with him?" Ingrid asked. "It's just — "

" _I don't — like — hospitals_ ," Dimitri growled. Iron stung his mouth. His voice scraped his throat.

"We're his friends. Roommates," Sylvain added.

The nurse nodded. "This way."

Temperature, blood pressure, some little thing with a red light that clipped onto Dimitri’s index finger. Ingrid and Sylvain held his hands while the nurse prodded at his face, dabbing away the blood and glued-in basement grime. They answered the simpler questions for him — height (six foot two), weight (170), allergies (peanuts, amoxicillin) — but when the nurse asked what had happened, they fell silent.

Dimitri shook his head (then swore under his breath). "Don't remember," he mumbled.

"You don't — ?" Ingrid snapped. Her hand tightened on his. Dimitri hunched his shoulders, bared his teeth.

“It was a full moon. I don’t _remember_ ,” he snapped back.

The nurse only sighed. “You weren’t supervised?”

“We’re all werewolves,” Sylvain explained. “Dimitri has … trouble. He’s got an enclosure in the basement … Ingrid and I checked on him this morning, and found him like that.”

“Did you see any obvious source of injury?”

Sylvain shrugged. “Sorry, doc. We were kinda freaked.”

The nurse turned to Dimitri. "Do you remember when you were injured? Your best guess is enough."

Dimitri shook his head ( _ow, Saints, stop DOING that_ ). Something … pain. Heat. Humidity, clogging his thick fur as he lay panting on the cold, bare floor. Orange light in the narrow basement window fading to blue, then black, leaving only the yellow lamp for illumination. The room had finally cooled, and he'd slept; then he'd woken with Ingrid shouting and shaking his human shoulder. He coughed. "Yesterday. Afternoon."

The nurse tucked away his clipboard. "Thank you. The doctor will see you shortly. Please wait."

They waited.

The doctor took one look at Dimitri and told him in no uncertain terms that they’d see him in surgery. Ingrid and Sylvain grabbed Dimitri’s shoulders in unison as he bristled, cringing back against the tile wall, bile high in his throat. His voice cracked, childish, humiliating. “I don’t want to.”

Ingrid squeezed his hand. “Come on. If there’s any chance of saving your eye, they’ll need to do surgery.” Her mouth twisted, her brow furrowed. Dimitri hadn’t seen the state of his face, but he could guess.

He sank lower in the vinyl chair, arms wrapped tight around his ribs. The air conditioning in the place had been cranked way too high to only be wearing a bathrobe.

“We’ll operate under general anaesthesia,” the doctor told him. “You won’t remember a thing.”

Goddess, Dimitri _wanted_ to be unconscious right now. He swallowed, nodded.

They took away his bathrobe, had him shrug into a flimsy paper hospital gown. His whole brain _screamed_. His skin wanted to crawl off and down the nearest drain. He shivered so violently he could barely follow the doctor, the linoleum freezing against his bare feet. The lack of depth perception didn’t help.

His shoulders hit the operating cot. The nurse pressed the plastic cup to his mouth and nose. Unable to recoil any further, Dimitri gasped a breath of sick-sweet air.

***

He surfaced blearily, muzzy-headed. His bed felt wrong — hard, tilted at an angle — the ceiling wrong, off-white fissured tile. Crisp, cold air and the reek of disinfectant itched in his sinuses. He blinked, and only one eye responded. Something stiff stuck to his other cheek. A pinprick itched below his elbow. Something beeped beside his shoulder, above his head —

He lurched, flailing with clumsy, sedated limbs. "No, no — dad — _dad — !_ "

"Dimitri!" Hands on his shoulders pressed him back to the hospital bed. Deep voice, warm skin, his field of vision flooded with teal shirt. "It's alright. You're alright. I have you."

"D'due," Dimitri croaked. He sagged back against the hospital bed, the stiff starched sheets, the crackling plastic pillow. "Wh' happen?"

"Sylvain called me after you were taken to surgery." Dedue sighed. "Your eye was too damaged to save."

His eye? His whole eye. Dimitri blinked at the ceiling with the one he still had. His _whole eye_.

What the fuck.

"Wan' go home," he mumbled.

Dedue's hand slipped into Dimitri's, dry and firm. "Once the doctor has had a chance to assess you."

"Then home."

"Then we'll go home," Dedue promised.

Dimitri's remaining eye sank closed.

***

The doctor came in, unplugged his IV and peeled off his electrodes, and handed him a set of medications with instructions he couldn't hear over the ringing in his ears. He gave Dedue a desperate look. Dedue nodded and squeezed his hand.

The important thing was that he could go home, which meant he could leave, get out of this cold cleaning-fluid linoleum purgatory. Also they gave his bathrobe back, and Dedue had brought his pajamas, socks, and shoes, because Dedue was both an angel and a saint and so much better than Dimitri deserved. Dimitri could have kissed him.

Humidity smacked Dimitri across the face with the swish of the automatic doors. The light faded into a Blue Sea Moon dusk. Dimitri wrinkled his nose, and immediately regretted it. "Wh' time?"

"Around nine."

Dimitri's head hurt too badly for arithmetic. He didn't know when he'd been dragged in, but it'd been sometime before noon. "Mngh."

He crumpled into the passenger's seat of Dedue's car, slapped ineffectually at his seatbelt until Dedue took pity and fastened it for him, and promptly passed out against the window.

***

“Dimitri.”

A hand squeezed his own. Dimitri snapped awake with a gasp, lurching forward from the car seat.

“You’re alright. It’s only me. It’s Dedue.”

“Whg,” said Dimitri. He blinked crustily. Pavement. Cars, parked. The pillar of a tall sign. "This’n’t home."

"It's not." The driver’s side door clunked open. Dimitri scrabbled at his own door until it opened, only to flop over his still-fastened seatbelt, knuckles scraping the asphalt.

“Fggh.”

Dedue propped up Dimitri’s shoulder, giving him a chance to unclip his seatbelt, and caught him before he could slump onto the pavement. "We're stopping at Hotcake House so you can eat something. Sylvain and Ingrid should already be here."

The place was crowded, likely with other werewolves and human companions. Their heights turned a few heads, but the beauty of a 24-hour greasy breakfast joint was that nobody batted an eye at a six-foot blond man with a bandaged face wearing pajamas, a bathrobe, and Hello Kitty socks. Sylvain and Ingrid waved them over to a booth already covered in plates: eggs, hashbrowns, pancakes; sausage, bacon, and ham; a small dish piled high with plastic tubs of jams and butter, and large bottles of maple syrup and condiments. Dimitri swallowed a sudden flood of saliva as hunger knotted in his stomach.

"Beh theh love fuh mooms," Sylvain mumbled around a mouthful of ham and toast.

Dimitri nodded absently, preoccupied with saturating his own plate of scrambled eggs with ketchup and maple syrup. Dedue passed him a glass of orange juice with a beleaguered sigh. Ingrid grimaced. "Why are you like this?"

" 'sfi'hh," said Dimitri as he stuffed a spoonful of scrambled mush into his mouth.

"What?"

Sylvain swallowed. "He said, 'It's fine'." Without raising his nose from his plate, Dimitri tossed him a thumbs-up.

Sylvain and Dimitri cleared three plates each; Dedue ate a normal person’s one, while Ingrid managed five and a milkshake, to the rest of the table’s fascination. Dimitri shuffled one empty plate onto another, clearing enough space for him to fold his arms on the table, tuck his nose into his elbow, and shut his eyes. Eye. The one that wasn’t swollen shut over a polymer placeholder. Hotcake House clamored with plates and cheap silverware, conversational chatter, the hiss of fryers and a soda fountain, and a Tom Jones song playing unintelligibly on a battered jukebox. The smell of bacon grease, cheap coffee, and pancake batter flooded the steaming air, but it was hot with body heat and the busy griddles behind the counter, not choking humidity.

Warm, greasy, and overstuffed, Dimitri crashed back into contented unconsciousness.

Someone jostled his shoulder. He groaned and buried his nose deeper into his elbow. The jostling continued.

“Wakey wakey, sunshine.”

“ 'on’ wanna.”

“I don’t think they’ll let us sleep in Hotcake House,” said Sylvain.

“They probably would,” Ingrid said thoughtfully. “They’ve seen worse. At least someone sleeping is quiet.”

“Yeah, but Mitya’d take up the whole booth. C'mon, big guy.”

The rush had slowed, though the background din of cheap 24-hour breakfast dining remained constant … was that the _same_ Tom Jones song on the jukebox?

Dedue’s hand closed around the back of Dimitri’s pajama shirt and dragged him upright. Dimitri sputtered, flailed, and backhanded Sylvain’s half-full cardboard soda cup halfway across the floor. The noise in the restaurant dimmed, except for Tom Jones’s jaunty baritone.

“Sorry!” Sylvain yelled. “Sorry! I’ll — Ingrid, smoosh — I’ll get that!”

The noise returned to its usual volume. Dimitri slouched sideways onto Dedue’s shoulder.

“You can’t sleep on me, either.”

Dimitri snagged the sleeve of Dedue’s T-shirt in his teeth. “ ‘m gonna.”

Ingrid sighed. "Dimitri."

"Okay, I'm back, what'd I — yeah, okay." Ingrid scooted sideways, allowing Sylvain to take the spot at the edge of the booth. “Dimitri, we gotta talk.”

— oh, he didn’t have that part of his field of vision anymore. Dimitri released Dedue’s sleeve to give Sylvain a pleading look, cheek still mushed against Dedue’s shoulder. “C’n it wait?”

“No.” Dedue nudged Dimitri upright. Wobbling, Dimitri wiped his mouth on his wrist.

"Wha's it?"

"We called a counselor," said Ingrid.

Dimitri blinked. " … what?"

"We were terrified when we found you this morning." Ingrid crossed her arms on the table. " _I_ was terrified. You weren't moving, there was blood everywhere, I — I thought you were _dead_. I'm not doing that again."

"You lost your whole eye, man. You keep on like this, one day we're gonna find your body. I won't stand by and let that happen." Sylvain shook his head. "Come on. You don't want to wind up in the hospital again any more than we want you to."

Dimitri pressed his lips together, hackles bristling, but he was too groggy and full to muster any real anger. He turned to Dedue. "You knew about this?"

"Yes," said Dedue. "I agree with Ingrid and Sylvain. You need help we can’t provide, even if you would accept it from us." His shoulders sank; his voice softened. Somehow that was worse than the reprimands. "I can't watch you suffer and do nothing."

"I emailed you the counselor's information. Her name's Dr. Eisner, she specializes in difficult transformations, and you're seeing her Tuesday afternoon." Ingrid glared up at him with puffy, bloodshot eyes.

" … I'm not going to hurt anyone," said Dimitri, sullen.

Dedue closed his hand around Dimitri's, squeezed. "You hurt yourself. That’s unacceptable."

But — blood, hot on his fangs, in the back of his throat —

"Dr. Eisner's coming by whether you like it or not," Sylvain pointed out. "We set up a house call. At least talk to her."

If someone could _help_ …

" … okay," Dimitri said, subdued. "Okay."


	2. the dormouse and the doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Dr. Byleth Eisner, Psy.D.
> 
> In which Dimitri has a rough conversation, and then dinner with friends. A.A. Milne and Planet Earth documentaries exist in modern AU Fódlan, because I said so.
> 
> Warning for this chapter: Dimitri's internal monologue is deeply self-loathing, á la canon. Bad Brains ahead.

Dr. Eisner was shorter than Dimitri had expected.

Also, she was younger.

Dimitri wasn’t sure what he _had_ expected, but he and Dr. Eisner stared at each other without blinking for ten seconds and counting before he cleared his throat. "Ah. Dr. Eisner?"

"Yes. Does Mr. Blaiddyd live here?"

Dimitri winced. "Ah. Yes, that would … that is … that's me. Please, call me Dimitri." _Mr. Blaiddyd_ still belonged to his father, and maybe always would, no matter how long it had been.

"Feel free to call me Byleth. May I come in?"

"Oh — yes, yes, of course. I'm sorry. Can I, ah, get you anything? We have … " The kitchen was a nightmare of dirty dishes and unidentified stains. " … water. Tea? Orange juice, I think … I'm sorry." ( _You said that already!_ ) "I'm not really sure how this appointment is meant to go."

Dr. Eisner gave Dimitri an unreadable look. "Whatever would be most comfortable for you."

"Um." ( _Help!_ ) "W-well, I … " ( _Deep breaths._ ) "We can sit down … some … where. One moment." Goddess, Saints, damn it, why hadn't he prepared for a visitor? He dashed into the living room, and — tripped over a chair. His elbow and the point of his hip slammed against the table. The backs of his eyes burst into ringing white.

Dr. Eisner followed him into the room, placid as ever. "Are you alright?"

" … ow," Dimitri wheezed. "Yes. Sorry." ( _Again! Dammit!_ ) He gestured to the shield taped over his face. Speaking of, his fall had jostled his healing stitches and it, pardon his Adrestian, _hurt like a motherfucker_. "This is recent. I'm still adjusting."

"I see."

"I don't," Dimitri muttered. Dr. Eisner didn't so much as huff. Dimitri cleared his throat. "Please, sit. I'm going to put the kettle on. Would you like anything?"

"Plain black tea, if you have any. No milk or sugar. Water, if you don't."

"Of course. One moment."

Dimitri retreated to the kitchen, trailing his fingertips along the countertop. Comfort in ritual: filling up the battered old stove kettle, portioning out looseleaf tea into the paper sachets, even the familiar pattern of stains and spills on the stove. One day that kettle would break for good, and he'd mourn it like a friend. For now, he leaned back against the counter and waited while it hissed.

Cethleann save him, every heartbeat stabbed back into his skull. He could take the painkillers he’d been sent home with, but he preferred pain over groggy nausea. The thought of numbing anything sat ill with him. Too easy to go too far; to turn medicine to poison; to chase oblivion as a refuge from all that haunted him until —

The kettle whistled.

The familiar tedium of forms, payment policies, and everything else Dimitri had dealt with a dozen times before drowned out his anxiety. He returned Dr. Eisner’s folder of paperwork feeling considerably more comfortable. This was basically therapy. He knew therapy. Dr. Eisner was just another specialist in a long line thereof. _Deep breaths, Dimitri._

Dr. Eisner took a long sip of her tea. “To start, I'd like to discuss why we're meeting today."

Ugh. Dimitri wrapped his fingers around his mug … why had he thought hot tea in midsummer was a good idea?

The pause stretched into an uncomfortable silence.

" … Ingrid didn't tell you?" he muttered. Saints damn it, his mood had soured quickly.

"I'd prefer to hear it in your own words," said Dr. Eisner, unmoved.

Dimitri gestured to his eye, shoulders bunched. “I injured myself during the full moon. I don’t recall how, or … much of anything.”

"The full moon was recent. That must be painful."

Dimitri shrugged. "I've had worse." (Had he? This was pretty high up the list. Goddess, he had a list.)

"Has this happened before?" Dr. Eisner asked, calm as if Dimitri had commented on a subpar cup of tea.

The rash on Dimitri's forearms itched. He crossed them, ignoring it. "No. This is the first time."

Dr. Eisner nodded.

… another silence. Dimitri tapped his fingers on the handle of his mug.

"Mr. Blaiddyd — "

“Dimitri.”

“ — I can't force you to speak with me. This must be uncomfortable.”

 _You think?_ grumbled Dimitri's worse nature. He lifted his mug to his lips. Chamomile vapor softened his bristling hackles, the growl rattling in the back of his throat. “I'm not very good at talking about myself … I'm autistic." Among other things.

He took a sip of his tea, eyeing Dr. Eisner's reaction. She settled back in her seat — straightened, relaxed slightly. "As am I," she said. "Thank you for telling me."

"It's relevant information."

"It can still be difficult to disclose."

"Mm." Dimitri sighed. “I become aggressive during full moons. Dangerous to others, and destructive to possessions and property.” _A monster, beast, demon —_ Dimitri slammed the lid on that particular dumpster fire. "It's under control!" he hurried to add, raising his hands — wait, that looked threatening, no sudden movements — they fluttered for a moment before Dimitri reclaimed control and wrapped them around his mug. "I have an enclosure in the basement. It's the only way I've found to prevent … " Honesty on one side, diplomacy and a reasonable first impression on the other … "accidents." Close enough. ( _Liar._ )

Dr. Eisner nodded. "I'd like to see this enclosure, if you're comfortable with that."

Oh, no. “Of course,” said Dimitri, brittle smile snapping into place.

He showed Dr. Eisner down the basement stairs, pausing a few steps down to rub his neck and apologize, _again_. The door cracked just enough for him to snake his wrist through and flip the light switch.

The reek of animal misery crashed over the threshold. Dr. Eisner’s nose wrinkled; Dimitri cringed, covering his own with one hand. A bare bulb flickered over equally bare concrete, scattered with torn insulation. The inside of the door bore long, splintered gouges in close parallel rows. Thank the Goddess and all her Saints, Ingrid or Sylvain had scrubbed his blood off the floor — Dimitri would never have recovered from that visual — but nothing short of fresh concrete or fireblasting could get rid of the smell.

"Um. Well," Dimitri said. His voice cracked into the awkward silence. "This is it." He swallowed. "Sorry." ( _Shit._ )

"I don't see food or water."

“There … usually isn't.” Oh, that sounded bad. “I break things,” Dimitri hurried to explain. That sounded worse. "Or knock them over … " Not much of an improvement. "I'd hurt myself." ( _Stop digging, idiot!_ )

“There's your problem," said Dr. Eisner. “You need to eat and drink. Toys?"

“What?”

The doctor stared across the concrete expanse like a general surveying troops, marshalling formations. There wasn’t much to look at — no furniture, no storage boxes, just a boarded-shut door to the outside and another to the furnace crawlspace. At least, there had better not be. Was there? It looked empty — it should be empty — but Dr. Eisner looked very intent, and Dimitri couldn't always trust his eyes …

"There's no need for us to stay down here." Dr. Eisner turned on her heel and marched back up the stairs. Stunned and slack-jawed, Dimitri barely remembered to lock the basement door before he followed her.

“Please,” he said, breathless on the landing, “I don’t want you to think … I’ve made a terrible first impression. I promise you, that’s not — that isn’t — ” He waved his hand, vaguely indicating the entirety of the basement. "I beg you not to judge me based on that alone."

“I'd be a poor counselor if I did.” Dr. Eisner turned to face him — Goddess above, how could a woman nearly a full foot shorter than Dimitri make him feel so effortlessly small? “Let's sit down."

Back at the table, Dimitri wrapped his trembling hands around his tea mug. He took a sip — it might as well have been warm water, but it bought him time to slow his breathing and quiet his heart, and it still smelled nice.

“When it comes to lunar aggression,” Dr. Eisner began, “I see, broadly speaking, two types of clients. The first display what I’d describe as ‘social aggression’. Aggressive behavior gets them what they want, and they tend to behave that way during the rest of the month, as well. I’ve only known you for a short time, Mr. Blaiddyd — ”

“ — Dimitri — ”

“ — but that doesn't seem like you. Moreover, if that were your problem, you wouldn’t self-isolate to cope.”

Dimitri swallowed. “ … and the other type?”

“Fear-based aggression.” Dr. Eisner gazed into the depths of her own mug, which by now had steeped to caffeinated ink. Dimitri’s pulse skipped just looking at it. “Aggression that arises in an effort to protect yourself, or the feeling that you need to. It manifests frequently in lycanthropes diagnosed with PTSD and other trauma disorders.”

Blood and ash mixed in Dimitri’s throat. He coughed until it cleared, and washed out the stickiness with a mouthful of tea. _Change the subject, change the subject …_ “What do toys have to do with anything?

“You need your basic needs met,” Dr. Eisner said, hammer-blunt. “That includes mental and emotional needs. Lunar aggression is complicated, but you can't begin to resolve it — with me, or any other professional — while your conditions reinforce it."

"Reinforce? Dr. Eisner, this is the only way to _stop —_ "

"Byleth. Please." Dr. Eisner shook her head. "It's a stopgap solution. It hides the symptoms while worsening the problem."

"What part of ' _I'm dangerous_ ' don't you understand?" Dimitri demanded. His voice cracked mid-sentence, ruining any sense of maturity he might have claimed. "The room isn't like that because I enjoy it. It needs to be — I — I _will not_ hurt anyone. I won't let it happen. I have my faults, Dr. Eisner, but I’m not a — a monster!”

_Liar._

It echoed in his head, ricocheted off the inside of his skull until he could hear nothing else. _Monster. Murderer. Beast._

Dr. Eisner’s voice cut through the cacophony, cool and quiet. “I never said you were.”

Dimitri flinched as if she'd punched him. “I — ”

_monster, monster, MONSTER, **MONSTER**_

“Mr. Blaiddyd.”

Dimitri’s breath caught. He sniffed, blinked back the smearing at the edges of his vision. Every heartbeat hammered a railroad spike through his ruined eye. “Y-yes. My apologies.” ( _Seven? Eight? Damn it._ ) “Please. Dimitri.”

"I'm not asking you to spend your next full moon in a crowded park. I only ask that you exercise some self-compassion. Wolf or human, you're an intelligent, social creature. Imprisonment and isolation, even self-inflicted, are traumatic. Boredom without relief turns to self-harm and destructiveness. When you're starving, disoriented, deprived, it's not surprising that you lash out. You can't begin to heal while you're still suffering.”

 _When a dog's gone rabid, you don't try to heal it_ , sneered the back of his skull.

"You're not a monster, Dimitri," Dr. Eisner said softly. Dimitri jerked his head up and — met her gaze, dark as her tea and even stronger, shining with some liquid, fathomless thing that Dimitri couldn't possibly put name to. "A monster wouldn't suffer to keep others safe."

His voice strangled, gasping like a castaway for a surface out of reach. “T — tell me, then — what should I do? How — how do I — ?”

Dr. Eisner paused. She closed her eyes, drew a slow breath, then exhaled. “I'm here to help you answer that question yourself," she said. "I — or another counselor, if you'd prefer — will work with you on the underlying cause during the fade of the moon, and coach you through managing stress and defensiveness during the full moon. When your counselor has a better sense of your needs and individual circumstances, they, or we, can build a plan for moving forward, to be adjusted as needed depending on your progress." She raised her mug and drained it without flinching. Dimitri stared, intimidated. "For now, the next steps are relatively straightforward — food, water, and enrichment. I think you'll find a cache of raw hamburger and some squeaky toys go a long way towards reducing your stress."

" … Squeaky toys?"

"Or whatever else appeals to you. Something to keep yourself occupied."

"I … see," Dimitri said faintly. Even the inner mockery shut up, too flabbergasted to think of a way to harangue him about it.

Dr. Eisner checked her watch, and reached into her bag. “We’re almost out of time. This folder has copies of your paperwork, and my contact information if you wish to arrange another appointment. At the very least, regardless of whether you continue with me, think on my recommendations.”

“I will,” Dimitri said, as reflex took control of his mouth. "I — wait — ap-appointment?" _Full sentences, caveman_. Ah, and it was back. He shook his head and mustered the syllables, stilted and stiff. "I'd like to schedule another. Um. Another appointment. Before I f-forget." _Or just don't bother_ , he didn't say.

Same time next week. At Dr. Eisner's office this time. Dimitri scraped together the wherewithal to punch it into his phone, and shook Dr. Eisner's hand when she offered hers, careful with his grip. Courtesy came out genial, practiced, and utterly sterile, an automated process of teeth and tongue.

“Thank you, Dr. Eisner. Have a good day.”

The screen door closed with a rattle. Dimitri jumped.

_Squeaky toys._

He took a sip of his tea. It had gone cold. The clock on his phone read 3:47 in implacable white-on-black. The appointment had ended at three.

“Squeaky toys,” he muttered. “Mother of Seiros.”

Today was. Was. Was Tuesday. Tuesday, a weekday. On Tuesdays … Dimitri squeezed his good eye shut, hissing as the bad one tried to follow. His hands curled into fists, nails scratching across the wood grain before they bit into his palms. On Tuesdays, Dedue left work at five. Over an hour from now.

Dimitri’s eye glazed over.

A car scraped into their driveway. 4:30 precisely. White sedan. Ingrid. Dimitri scraped himself out of the chair, scooped up the folder, left his cold tea where it was, and slunk into his bedroom. Cari stared at him with beaded glass eyes, toppled on her side. Dimitri scooped the plush sheepdog into his arms and rolled into a ball on his bed.

The door opened, then closed. “Dimitri?” called Ingrid, muffled from the entrance.

Footsteps. A tap on his door snapped across Dimitri’s skin.

“Are you there?”

“Yes,” Dimitri said, praying his voice didn’t give away that he’d curled into the fetal position around the stuffed dog he’d had since he was two.

“Was Dr. Eisner here? How did it go?”

“Fine,” Dimitri lied. “ ‘m tired.”

“Oh. Alright. Don’t forget to eat.”

“Mm.”

Dimitri buried his nose in Cari's black terrycloth side, and squeezed his eyes shut.

_The Dormouse lay happy, his eyes were so tight  
He could see no chrysanthemums, yellow or white._

Sometimes he imagined his father’s aftershave in Cari’s fur. He’d open his eyes small and safe in their old house, backed by acres of deep, dark forest where a wolf could chase mice and rabbits clear to the bank of the Fhirdiad River and never meet a human. His father’s howl, long and low, ringing over trees painted black and silver in full moonlight. His stepmother’s hand brushing back his hair, tucking the covers close around his shoulders, soft alto rolling over a children’s poem.

_And all that he felt at the back of his head  
were delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red)._

But he wasn't a mouse.

Dimitri’s phone buzzed. He fumbled an arm around to his back pocket … damn it, his good eye was the one pressed into his blanket. Rolling over only put pressure on the shield over his bad one, so he begrudgingly propped himself on his elbows, Cari tucked under his chin, and swiped open his messages.

 **dedue ♡**  
> how did it go?  
_5:23_

5:23? Dimitri squinted. The sun outside his window gave him no clues; in Blue Sea Moon it wouldn’t begin to set until eight-thirty or so.

 **dab**  
it went fine <  
tired <  
aren't you driving? <

 **dedue ♡**  
> of course not.  
> i haven't left work yet  
_5:28_

 **dab** <  
don't let me keep you <

Dimitri buried his nose in Cari and rolled back onto his side, biting his tongue on the warmth welling up in his chest.

Behind his head, his phone buzzed again.

 **dedue ♡**  
> have you eaten?  
_5:31_

Dimitri’s nose scrunched.

 **me**  
i ate breakfast <

 **dedue ♡**  
> Dimitri.

 **me**  
DEDUE <

 **dedue ♡**  
> i’ll pick you up

 **me**  
>:( <

 **dedue ♡**  
> :p  
_5:36_

Dimitri huffed at his phone screen and slouched onto his side. “I can't believe him. Can you believe him?”

 _Boof_ , said Cari.

Exactly twenty minutes later, Dedue’s car pulled up outside their house. Dimitri flopped off his bed, tucked Cari against his side, and scooped his meds and toothbrush from the bathroom. Ingrid looked up from the table. Dimitri raised his free hand in a half-wave. “Heading out. Dedue.”

“Will you be back tonight?”

Dimitri shrugged.

“Alright. Don't do anything Sylvain would do.” Ingrid cracked a smile. It thudded dully against Dimitri's fog of exhaustion.

Keys, coat, backpack, shoes, then out the door and into Dedue's battered green van, bracing a hand on the side of the car until his sense of touch found the latch on his freshly-blind side. He slid into the passenger’s seat and leaned over without needing to look, let his head drop onto Dedue’s shoulder, let his good eye shut and his breath catch and the tears sting cold on his lashes.

Deep breaths. Old-car must, the ghosts of a hundred thousand snack crumbs wedged into irretrievable places; motor oil, paint, potting soil and dense earth crusted into the trunk and backseat. Dedue’s arm settled around Dimitri's shoulders. Dimitri hiccuped, clutched Cari closer to his chest.

“How are you doing?” Dedue murmured.

Dimitri scrubbed his free hand across his eyes. “She wants me to buy _squeaky toys_.”

"Horror of horrors."

"Don't start." Dimitri sniffed. "How was work?"

"Not bad." Dedue's shoulder shifted, and the engine turned over. Dimitri slouched back against the passenger’s seat and rolled down the window. "No worse than usual. Someone tried to return a dead plant just before closing."

"Dead?"

"Little more than sticks. Supposedly it was defective when we sold it. I'm sure the soil being desiccated beyond help had nothing to do with it."

" _Ugh._ "

It wasn't far to the Greenhouse, and Dedue's nightmare customer story lasted them most of the way there. It was alright to settle into silence, too; silence with Dedue was comfortable, comforting, a quiet in which nothing needed to be said. Warm breeze whipped through Dimitri's hair and cooled the sweat that plastered his shirt to his back. By the time they pulled up to the house — a small two-story, painted a faded minty green — he felt almost alright.

Mercedes poked her head out from the kitchen as they entered, shedding their shoes by the door. "Ah, Dimitri! Dedue! Ashe and I just finished cooking — macaroni and cheese with ham, bacon, and ground Adrestian sausage."

Dimitri's mouth watered — oh, he had missed lunch, and it smelled amazing — but he caught a sidelong glance from Dedue, and scowled. "You planned this," he accused.

Mercedes smiled. “Our dear friend was hospitalized. We wanted to do something nice for him." Dimitri grumbled, but shed his coat and backpack onto the couch.

“Conspirators, all of you.”

Mercedes’s smile did not flicker. “Unrepentantly so! I think Annette’s in their room, Dedue, would you fetch them?”

“Certainly.”

The Den didn’t often eat together. Ingrid or Sylvain cooked every so often, but only for themselves; Dimitri could hardly ever motivate himself to do so when the result wouldn’t taste like much regardless. With friends … with friends, he could keep his head down with someone else’s up, and let company drown out the rattling insistence that he didn’t deserve this. Dedue slid a plate under Dimitri’s nose, heavily laden with twice as much as Dimitri would have served himself and a biscuit teetering on the edge. Dimitri huffed and thrust out his chin, but the Goddess Herself couldn’t compete with Mercedes’s homemade biscuits, and he was too hungry to hold out long.

Ashe and Mercedes kept up a lively conversation with Dedue’s more sedate input; Annette’s arrival raised the volume another few notches as they piled their plate high, chattering about their summer research at FIT. Dimitri escaped with an exchange of hello-how-are-yous and a few questions about the state of his eye ( _‘about as well as you could expect; yes, it's gone; thank you, well, it is what it is’_ ). The evening wore on, and Ashe broke out a bottle of wine ( _'dimitri, do you mind?' 'no, go ahead'_ ), while Annette retreated to their room, pleading data analysis. Dimitri slouched onto Dedue’s shoulder, tracking the conversation through his lashes as his eyelids drooped.

“ … think we lost Dimitri. Dimitri?”

“ ‘mmwake,” Dimitri lied. Ashe and Mercedes laughed, voices warm and wine-tipsy.

“Mercie and I have D&D, so we’ll leave you guys the living room if you’ll take care of the dishes,” said Ashe. Dimitri shook his head and roused himself, rubbing his good eye.

Clank, clonk, swish. Thank the Goddess for dishwashers — Dimitri only had to pass Dedue the dishes while he loaded them in. The cookware piled into the sink to give the crusted cheese a chance to soak off. The bus back to the Den had stopped running an hour ago, and Dedue avoided driving at night, so Dimitri borrowed a T-shirt (comfortably faded cotton, well-settled on his broad shoulders but loose around the waist), brushed his teeth and took his meds, gave Dedue the bathroom to do the same, and then they were free to settle on the couch together.

Hm.

"Can we switch places?"

Dedue looked up from his laptop. "Hm? Certainly."

"I'd rather have you on my blind side," Dimitri explained, though Dedue hadn't asked. " … I feel safer."

"I see." A soft sigh, felt rather than heard beneath the dishwasher gurgling in the kitchen. " … I'm glad to hear that."

They put on _Planet Earth_. Dedue worked on his laptop; Dimitri sprawled with his head on Dedue's thigh, his legs slung over the arm of the couch, and Cari plonked on his chest. Half an episode in, Dedue gave up on working and propped his chin on one hand. The other rested on Dimitri's hair, scratching gently behind his ear.

In the bottom of Dimitri's chest, the animal trod in a circle, curled into a ball, and tucked its nose beneath its tail.

_There once was a Dormouse who lived in a bed  
Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red) …_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ENDLESS thanks and appreciation to [pentagonbuddy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentagonbuddy) for helping me troubleshoot this chapter! Seriously, I've been stuck on it for literal months. My 'outtakes' section is so long.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the FE3H AU Big Bang! Art by @[. Thank you for reading!](https://twitter.com/apollonan/status/1352818779223453697?s=21>apollonan</a>%20on%20twitter!%20You%20can%20find%20me%20at%20@<a%20href=)


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